She moved through it.
Branch to branch, her hands finding the next grip before releasing the last, her thick body translating through the upper canopy with the particular grace of someone who is at home in it — not fast, not showy, the solid, efficient movement of a veteran.
The skirt was a problem.
It moved with her. Specifically, it moved against her — the hem rising with each jump, the fabric doing what the fabric had been doing since she put it on but now with additional wind assistance, each launch upward sending it to her waist.
Her pussy was bare to the moonlight on every jump.
She pulled it down on every landing.
The white hair of her mound flashed silver in the gaps between canopy patches, illuminated and gone, illuminated and gone, in rhythm with her movement through the trees.
Her tits.
